by Susan Fox
Hugs, Kat.
Theresa, flying to Vancouver from Sydney, Australia, where she taught sociology at the university, had picked up my e-mail in Honolulu and responded.
Hi Kat. Glad you got the tickets. I should be able to borrow someone’s car and meet you at the station.
Yes, you’re right about invitations. I think e-vites are a good idea. I talked to Merilee and she agrees. She and Matt are going to put together a guest list. So, when you have time, go ahead and do something up. I’m sure it’ll be great.
Just remember, this is M&M, not some ritzy hotel you’re promoting!
I gave a snort of my own. Having a superachiever for an older sister was a pain in the ass. She never gave me credit. Of course I’d design especially for my kid sister and her guy.
Oh, BTW, I won’t be in Vancouver until tomorrow night. I’m in Honolulu overnight. There’s e-mail (obviously!) and you can reach me by cell.
Overnighting in Honolulu had been a change of plans. She’d intended to connect straight on to Vancouver. Normally, my control freak sister would be royally pissed if something messed up her plans, yet she sounded surprisingly copacetic.
Heard anything from Jenna? I told her to call you. She’s trying to work out her travel plans.
Talk soon. Theresa
Ah, Jenna. No, I still hadn’t heard from her. The word “flaky” had been invented for the third sister in our three-pack. She was almost thirty, yet she’d never had a real job or a real relationship. Her motto was Variety is the spice of life. And she liked her life very, very spicy.
The next e-mail was from Merilee—the unexpected child who’d come along eight years after Jenna, making us a three pack plus one. Her message said she and Matt were working on a guest list and loved the idea of e-vites. I had e-mailed her and Theresa back.
Been doing some thinking, and there’s a couple of ways we could go. Merilee, those mags you scattered around the house were all hearts/flowers/lace, so maybe you want to go with the whole soft, romantic, traditional kind of thing. But then I was thinking how you and Matt have been M&M forever, and how you always include a bag of M&Ms whenever you give each other a birthday or Christmas present, and I thought it might be fun to use the candy as a theme.
Let me know what you think. I can do either. Whatever you guys want.
Hugs and smooches, bride to be!
Merilee had responded with,
Squeee!!!!!! Oh yeah, M&Ms! What a cool idea. It’s so “us.” You’re the best, Kat.
I smiled. Theresa might have put herself in charge of the wedding—she’d said she was drawing up a spreadsheet—but I was the one who’d made Merilee Squeee with six exclamation marks.
Last night I’d started to draft an e-vite. Now I pulled it up to work on.
Glancing out the window, I saw we were passing through the western suburbs of Montreal. Sure enough, moments later we pulled into Dorval station and some passengers gathered their belongings.
A burble of sexy female laughter distracted me from the computer screen, then the unseen woman said, in French, “Oh, I definitely want to hear more about that.”
A male voice, deep and so low I couldn’t make out the words, replied.
Then the woman came into view, sauntering toward me down the aisle as she headed for the exit. Long blond hair, vivacious features, a lush body, and a killer suit I guessed to be Armani. In her hand was a gorgeous and very feminine red leather bag—either a Birkin or an excellent knockoff—that made me drool. She did a hair toss and glanced behind her flirtatiously, then her companion came into sight.
It was the man from the train station. The hot Indian grandson, as I’d thought at the time. And now here he was with a different travel companion.
He came closer; I looked at his face, and—oh, my God! “Nav?”
Or was it? If so, he’d been transformed.
His gaze flicked to mine. He raised his brows in puzzlement rather than smiling in recognition, but there was definite appreciation in the wickedly male gleam in his eye, the hint of a smile tugging at full lips.
No, it wasn’t my neighbor. The eyes were very similar, but this man—the one whose fashion sense and budget were the polar opposite of Nav’s—was older. He had a higher forehead, sharper cheekbones, a stronger jawline. An utterly sensual mouth.
My lips curved. How could I not respond to the flattery of that eye-gleam, from such a striking, sexy guy? Even if he was with another woman, one who topped me on the beauty scale.
He moved on, pulling a Louis Vuitton wheeled carry-on. I caught the flash of gold on his wrist. An expensive watch.
I glanced out the window to watch the departing passengers. Expecting to see the striking couple, I was surprised when only the woman—now pulling the Vuitton bag herself—headed for the shuttle. Walking confidently, with a sexy sway to her hips, she paused to toss a laughing remark over her shoulder.
I wondered at their relationship. Were they a couple, or had they just met on the short train trip, hit it off, exchanged phone numbers?
Would he be walking back down the aisle?
Pretending to study my computer screen, I glanced up under my eyelashes as a family bustled noisily past. The train started to move and then, there he was. Pausing to stare at me until I couldn’t pretend any longer.
I lifted my head and met his gaze.
The interested gleam was still in his eyes and it shot a tingle of acknowledgment—let’s face it, of lust—rippling through me.
Oh, wow, was he fine. But also, hauntingly familiar. Was this my neighbor, playing a joke on me?
If Nav’s hair was pulled back, his mustache and beard shaved off, and if he could be persuaded to wear designer labels, might he look like this? Surely it was too much coincidence that a near look-alike would show up on my train. But had I even told Nav my schedule? Last night I’d knocked on his door, but there’d been no answer.
“Nav?” I asked again, speaking in English, hearing the uncertainty in my voice. “Come on, it’s you. Isn’t it?”
His eyes—Nav’s eyes—danced. When he spoke, his voice was deep like Nav’s, but he didn’t speak English, nor Québécois French. In Parisian French, he said, “You break my heart.” His gesture, placing his right hand over his heart theatrically, was not one I’d ever imagine Nav making. Nor was the ring, heavy gold with a flashing diamond, something my antimaterialism neighbor would ever, in a million years, wear, or be able to afford. “I’d like to think that if you’d met me, lovely lady, you would remember.”
Then he said, “Pardon me. I’m assuming you speak French. Yes?”
“Oui.” Baffled, I switched to French. “I’m amazed by the resemblance. Are you related to Naveen Bharani?”
“No, I’m not related to Naveen Bharani, but everyone has a double. Who is this man? Your boyfriend?” Again he put his hand to his heart. “Tell me you don’t have a boyfriend.”
I chuckled and was about to respond when the lawyer in the aisle seat said, “Excuse me for interrupting, but would you two like to sit together?” He put a slight but pointed emphasis on the word “interrupting.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know you’re trying to work.”
“I apologize, too,” the flirtatious man said. “Perhaps we might exchange seats? If the lady agrees?” He tipped his head to me, nicely shaped eyebrows raised, eyes sparkling with appreciation and challenge. He was polite, yet his confident manner suggested he was sure the lawyer and I would agree.
“I…” This person who could almost be Nav’s twin had just said good-bye to a beautiful woman, and now he was hustling me. I shouldn’t go along.
All the same, it was a long trip and my current seatmate wasn’t into chatting. The Indian guy intrigued me, and not only because of his resemblance to Nav. He was distinctly hot, and his attention was flattering.
“Well?” The lawyer’s voice was edged with impatience.
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks. And again, I’m sorry we disturbed you.”
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br /> “Not a problem.” He gathered his things, stood, then the two men headed down the aisle together.
Quickly I closed the file on my computer, touched up my lipstick, and got rid of my empty coffee container.
And then the hot guy was back. As he stowed his bags overhead, I thought that he moved the way Nav did, with strength and fluid economy.
I loved his style. Modern, classy, expensive, but not over the top. Immaculately groomed, yet not the slightest bit metrosexual with his strong features and athletic build. No, he was purely masculine, and my body tingled with sexual awareness.
He slipped into the seat beside me and a hint of sandalwood, one of my favorite scents, drifted toward me. In my apartment, I always had sandalwood candles. That spicy, earthy scent coming off a sexy man stirred my senses in a way the candles never had.
His movements reminded me of Nav’s; his scent was different. His eyes were like Nav’s, but his face was leaner, stronger. Or at least I thought it was. As best I’d been able to tell, given Nav’s overgrown hair, my friend had rounder features.
“No,” the man said, “I’m not related to your friend. Do I look that much like him?”
He’d caught me staring. “Sorry.” I made an apologetic face. “There really are some similarities.”
“As I said, everyone has a double.” He adjusted his seat and I got a closer look at his watch—a gold Piaget that had to be worth a small fortune.
I chuckled at the thought of shaggy-haired Nav in his old jeans and battered Timex side by side with this man. “You’re not exactly doubles.” For a moment, the thought made me feel disloyal to my friend. But that was silly. Sweet, cute Nav with his “you’re too obsessed with appearances” philosophy had chosen his style just as much as this man had.
“We’re not?” My companion crossed one leg over the other, his knee brushing my leg. Not accidentally. If there was one thing this man wasn’t, it was shy. He gazed at me, a teasing challenge in his eyes. “How am I different?”
Through my jeans, my flesh tingled pleasantly. But I drew my leg away. I wasn’t going to make this too easy for him. Besides, my heart was still bruised from Jean-Pierre—though I had to admit it was healing under the flattering balm of this hot guy’s attention.
How should I respond to his question? This man needed no boost to his male ego, and I wasn’t about to tell him he was better looking, better dressed, richer, and more confident than Nav. Keeping my face straight, I said, “You’re older.” Nav was twenty-eight, three years younger than me. This man, with his angular features, expensive style, and sophisticated aura, had to be older than me.
“Older?” One side of his mouth curved up.
“And his French is Québécois while yours is Parisian.” Though I did recall Nav telling me that as a child in London he’d learned continental French. When he’d moved to Quebec, he’d worked hard to change accents so he’d fit in with his fellow students. Doubt crossed my mind again. Those eyes were so much like Nav’s.
I narrowed my own eyes. “You’re absolutely positive you’re not him?”
He chuckled. “Would you like me to be Naveen? I can pretend, if that’s what you want.”
“I’m not sure you could. He’s a very nice person.” I said it teasingly. This man knew I was attracted to him, but I wanted him to know I had reservations.
“Ouch.” His brow wrinkled. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“You abandon your grandmother, then you see your girlfriend off at Dorval, and five minutes later you’re flirting with someone else?”
“Ma grand-mère?” He frowned in puzzlement. Then his face lightened and he snapped long, well-shaped fingers. Fingers just like Nav’s except for the excellent manicure. “You saw me at the station. How did I not notice you?” His Parisian French was so elegant, so much better suited to this kind of compliment than Québécois or English.
“Don’t go overboard on the flattery,” I said dryly, though I was a sucker for it. “And I wasn’t in the station, I was on the train.” I gestured toward the big window beside me. Outside, I saw fields of farmland bordered by lush forest. Soon we’d cross from Quebec into Ontario.
“Ah, yes. Well, the woman you saw, Mrs. Chowdary, isn’t my grandmother. I was crossing the station when her bag fell over, so I stopped to help.”
A Good Samaritan. Nav would have done the same thing. “That was kind.”
He shrugged. “The bag was far too heavy for her. She’s going to visit family in Quebec City and packed gifts for her daughter and son-in-law and six grandchildren.”
She’d told him her life story, and he’d listened. Points to him for being nice to the old lady, but that didn’t let him off the hook. “And what about the girlfriend? The Armani blond with the Birkin bag.”
“Observant, aren’t you?” He smiled and touched my bare forearm quickly. Casually. Except, I sensed that nothing this man did was casual. If his intent had been to make my skin burn, my breath quicken, to make me even more physically aware of him, he’d succeeded. “And you jump to conclusions,” he added.
“Do I?”
“She’s no more my girlfriend than Mrs. Chowdary is my grandmother. My seat was beside hers, we got talking. You know how it goes.”
“Certainement. I suppose the women you sit beside always give you their phone numbers?” I guessed the blonde had, from the comment I’d overheard. And because he was that kind of man.
The kind of man I went for. The dangerous kind.
“It’s been known to happen.” Humor danced in his eyes.
I wished those eyes weren’t so like Nav’s. They made me want to trust him. I firmed my jaw. “And is that what you want from me? My phone number?” One more to add in his PDA? If so, he wouldn’t get it. I didn’t need a man who, like Jean-Pierre—and Nav—went through women the way I went through a box of Godiva chocolates.
He gave me a knowing smile. “What do I want from you? Many things. Starting with pleasant company on a long train trip. Fair enough?”
I’d have happily spent the trip chatting with the silver-haired lawyer, so why not with this sexy, flirtatious man? “Fair enough.” I held out my hand. “I’m Kat Fallon.”
He took it, but rather than shaking, held on to it. “Just to be clear, you don’t want me to be Naveen?”
A warm glow spread up my arm. “Cute. No. There’s only one Nav, and he’s my best friend.”
“Best friend.” He echoed the words slowly, thoughtfully.
He must think it unusual for a woman to have a male best friend, but it was the truth. A truth I’d never actually told Nav. It seemed kind of pathetic that an outgoing woman of my age had never had a friend I felt as close to as I did him.
“Well, then.” My seatmate lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a slow, soft, sexy kiss to the back of it. “You can call me Pritam.”
My breath caught. God, he had sensual lips, and that kiss had me imagining the way they’d feel on other, more intimate parts of my body. As he’d no doubt intended.
I tugged my hand away. “No last name?”
He shook his head. “I use only Pritam.”
“Really?” The single name, the clothes, the jewelry—he definitely wasn’t the normal guy you met on the street. “What line of work are you in?”
“Entertainment. And what do you do?”
Entertainment? That fit his image. I was curious, but answered his question. “I’m director of public relations at a hotel in Old Montreal. Le Cachet. Do you know it?”
“I do. It’s charming.”
“Have you stayed there? Or do you live in Montreal?”
“I’ve eaten there a time or two. And yes, at the moment I’m based in Montreal.”
“At the moment?”
“I’m doing business in Montreal. How about you? Did you grow up there? Your French is perfect, yet I sense you’re not a native Québécoise.”
“No, I’m from the West Coast. Vancouver.”
“Ah. Mountains and oc
ean. I hear it’s lovely. What brought you to Quebec?”
I was about to give him the edited version that had nothing to do with escaping family pressures, when a uniformed steward stopped beside us. “Madame, Monsieur, would you care for a drink before dinner?”
“I’d like a glass of white wine,” I told him.
“For me also,” Pritam said. “And it’s my treat.”
“We have a chardonnay from Château des Charmes or an Inniskillin pinot grigio,” the steward said.
“I’ll take the pinot grigio,” I said. Then, to Pritam, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I’ll have the same.”
The steward poured our wine. “I’ll leave dinner menus and check back shortly.”
We thanked him, then when he’d gone Pritam raised his wineglass. His shirt cuffs were unbuttoned, his wrist brown and masculine.
Very, very masculine and touchable. My nipples tightened against the silky fabric of my camisole.
“To two strangers meeting on a train.” There was a seductive huskiness to his voice that told me, if he had his way, we wouldn’t stay strangers long.
My body responded with another thrill of arousal. I touched my glass to his. “And to a pleasant journey.”
“A very pleasant one.” He drew the words out slowly and, over the glasses, our gazes met. There was no mistaking the sexual spark in his.
And no mistaking the sparks that heated my blood and made my pussy throb. This was exactly the kind of man who attracted me. Charismatic, sexy, and sure of himself. Attracted to me, and totally focused on going after what he wanted. Pritam’s attention both soothed my heartache and ignited my sexuality. I hadn’t felt so alive, so feminine and desirable, in months.